Identity
by BlueInked
Summary: Oneshot. Smokescreen's past wasn't exactly the kind to inspire trust, and right now, he needed trust.


A/N This popped into my head right after New Recruit. Written for the fun of it. Smoke could really be any age, looking at him.

* * *

Smokescreen watched the battle with interest. Four Autobots versus his pursuers. And the Autobots were doing well. He leaned against a tree and observed them, in no rush to help. Yet.

It had been a while since he had been part of a unit – it had been a while since he had even talked directly to members of his own race - but this one looked promising. He recognised the medic as Ratchet, one of the most skilful mechs to survive the war thus far. The two-wheeler he was fairly sure was Arcee, a scout. Or possibly Chromia, although she was reputedly bigger and a lighter blue the last he had heard. Both were competent. The bright yellow youngling with doorwings like his own he didn't know, but from his way he handled his blasters he wasn't exactly as new to battle as his appearance suggested.

And the huge red and blue leader… Well, everybody knew Optimus Prime. Fearless Autobot leader and all that. This unit was definitely for him. He was beginning to miss having company that couldn't a) be accidentally squished and incur a war, or b) melt him into a puddle of gloop.

He watched Arcee kick an insecticon off Ratchet. The unit was tight. His own story wouldn't get him close to joining. The question was who should he be? He hadn't tried a veteran in a while… But between Ratchet and Optimus, that probably wouldn't be possible. They'd have heard of all the veterans. Maybe a Neutral? No, the shiny Elite Guard icon cancelled that. His whole frame was entirely too fresh for most alter-egos. When Swindle promised a new frame, you got a new frame. And then you ran like anything to avoid having to give it back. Besides, nobody really trusted Neutrals, Swindle himself being a case in point. At least he had actually been in the Elite Guard, in case they looked it up.

His earlier thoughts surfaced again. Everybody knew Optimus Prime. Even rookies like he had once been. Especially them; the completely inexperienced, hero-worshipping, irresponsible, shiny-new-framed-recruits. It had been a while, but he could still recall his old personality.

Hello, Smokescreen. The Smokescreen that had been captured by Decepticons fairly instantaneously, after attempting to guard the Iacon Hall of Records. The one who had learned from Alpha Trion, Optimus's mentor. If that didn't provide a basis for trust, nothing would.

The escape pod he had borrowed was a long-distance one. Not the original one, obviously, but the one that had taken him here. Stasis was a wonderful excuse for all the time between then and now, his new frame showing no evidence of years of living in offworld colonies, gambling for his own life. Learning to survive with nothing but fast wheels and a smooth tongue, misdirecting attention and acting the parts of more than one person. That history was not the kind to inspire trust, and right now he needed to be trustworthy.

Before his capture, he had been reckless, impulsive. Worse at calculating odds, better at trusting people. The kind of rookie who would run straight through a fire fight, never considering that the Autobots were more likely to shoot him than the 'cons. They had better aim. The kind with enough dumb luck to hit a pool of energon, and enough bravado to claim he had intended it. He knew exactly who he had been, and thus who he was. Those years hadn't happened. He had never even seen an organic, let alone met thousands of them, never learned to be cautious, never been in a real fight. Swindle? Who was that?

This would either be enjoyable or incredibly painful if he timed it wrong. Smokescreen weighed the odds and adjusted his doorwings higher; because of course he didn't know that that was a bad idea with all the shots flying around. When he started to run he did so without using cover or attempting to be subtle. They noticed, of course. That was the idea.

"Incoming!" He ignored the hostility in Arcee's voice and continued sprinting towards the unit, firing over their heads at the Vehicons. He blindly trusted that they wouldn't shoot him. The last remnants of his real self were once more locked in the back of his mind. Where they would stay until it was time to move on.

"Front and centre!" His voice was the one that had talked to Alpha Trion, the one that had complained about being stuck in Iacon.

His story was the truth, of course. But it was a long way from the whole truth.


End file.
